Into his own : the story of an airedale

INTO

HIS OWN

t//i&

AN AIRGDALG

CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND

THE

GAMMANS POETRY

COLLECTION

In Memory of

GEORGE H. GAMMANS, II

Class of 1940

First Lieutenant Army Air Corps

Distinguished Service Cross

Missing in Action January 15, 1943

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NORTH CAROLINA LIBRARY

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Into
His Own

The Story of

An Airedale

BY J I
I

A

CLARENCE BJ KELLAND

Author of
Thirty Pieces of Silver"

PHILADELPHIA:

DAVTD McKAY, Publisher

604-608 South Washington Square

mmmmimmmfmfMm^mMmmiMm'mfmMM'mm^mmmm

Copyright, 1915, by David McKay

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

Page
A Fine Start for a Young Dog 5

CHAPTER II
" Gutter Dog " 13

CHAPTER III
The Fiohting Breed 20

CHAPTER IV
Sandy Kens a Dog when He Sees One 30

CHAPTER V
The Title is Handed Down 40

Ui

CHAPTER I

A FINE START FOR A YOUNG DOG

"There's as promisin' a pup as I've
seen in two dogs' ages/' was what I
heard the man in the kennels say about
me once, and I'm glad I heard it. If it
hadn't been for that I'm afraid I'd have
lost my grip when folks was saying I was
nothing but a yellow cur and throwing
things at me and sicking other dogs on
me. But I remembered, and I remem-
bered, too, that the man that said it
knew what he was talking about. If he
said I was a good puppy, then I was a
good puppy, and no use arguing about
it.

Sometimes I almost forgot what kind
of a dog I was. You see there was so
many things happening, and I had so

5

INTO HIS OWN

much on my mind, and my schooling
was broken off in what you might call
the kindergarten, that I didn't under-
stand how important it was to know
what kind of a dog I was. That's the
first thing a puppy ought to learn, and
he ought to learn it so he can say it
backward and frontward and upside
down.

But, as I say, I almost forgot, and it
was just my luck to fetch up in a little
town where nobody knew the difference
between a St. Bernard and a Mexican
Hairless.

I am an Airedale, but I don't speak
like one. That's the fault of living in
the gutter like I did. I picked up gutter
talk and now it's hard work for me to
speak the way I ought to. An Airedale
ought to speak Scotch. Mother did.
I remember the burr in her speech.
She used to say, "Dinna ye ken, Laddie,
a wee bit doggie should look tae his ain

6

INTO HIS OWN

manners afore he gi'es a thocht tae his
meals?" That's real Airedale talk. But
I lost the trick of it.

The worst part of being an Airedale is
that folks have to be educated to appre-
ciate you. A body that don't know
thinks because we're so homely we're
not of good family, and call us "yaller
dawgs." They don't understand our
points. And that's why I had such a
hard time of it.

I don't remember all about how my
hard luck started. Things were so noisy
and confused. I do remember waking
up and hearing no end of racket and
gongs ringing and folks yelling; and then
there was the yellow light that fright-
ened me. It was a fire. It kept getting
closer and closer and smoke got in my
lungs and I was scairt almost to death.
Then somebody kicked in the door and
I put my tail between my legs and
scooted. I kept right on scooting.

7

INTO HIS OWN

Most likely there never was a puppy as
frightened as I was. It seemed like I
couldn't stop running, and I didn't
for a long time. When I did I was
away out in the country and it was
dark and I was alone.

Thirsty! Wow, but my mouth was
dry and my throat felt like an old shoe
I used to play with near the kennels!
I found some water in a ditch and
lapped and lapped until I could feel
myself puffing out like a fat pug — and
no self-respecting dog likes to look like
a pug. When I couldn't hold any more
I crawled under some bushes and went
to sleep.

It was daylight when I woke up, and
then for the life of me I couldn't tell
which way I had come from. Anybody
who thinks I wasn't good and lost has
another guess coming. And me not
seven months old! You can scare an
Airedale just so much, and then he begins

8

INTO HIS OWN

to get over it. That was the way with
me; there wasn't any more room for
scare, so I braced up considerable and
started off to do the best I could for
myself, which didn't turn out to be
much.

The thing that worried me was being
away from my family without saying
good-bye or letting them know where I
was. I knew mother would worry and
stew, which isn't good for a dog, particu-
larly when the bench show is coming on
and she ought to look her best. Mother
was a Blue Ribbon dog. I didn't under-
stand just what that was, but she
seemed pretty proud of it, and the man
was proud of it, too. I wished I could
get word to her not to fuss about me.
It was quite a while before I even
thought that I might never see her again.
Never! Think of that! Well, sir! I
just sat down and bawled. That was
because I was so young.

9

INTO HIS OWN

I was hungry, and when a puppy is
hungry it is hard for him to think long
about anything but his stomach. Pretty
soon I quit bawling and mooched along
to see if there was any chance of getting
a bite.

About a mile away was a house. I
didn't know then that every farmhouse
belongs to a big dog and that the big
dog is mostly bad tempered. That was
something I was to find out. The first
lesson came at the house I could see.
It makes me laugh now to think of it —
to think of a half-bred black Collie dog
chasing me down the road — me that got
to be the toughest dog and the best
fighter in our county! Why, to-day
I'd — But that wasn't to-day, was it?
Far from it.

The dog didn't chase me far, but he
might as well have run me a thousand
miles. There wasn't another place I
could see where there was even a hint of

10

INTO HIS OWN

grub. It was enough to make a puppy
lay on his back and wiggle his legs.
That was where the Airedale came in,
for ours is a blood that doesn't do that
sort of thing. We can't. So I kept on,
dodging dogs and teams, till I came to a
pretty good sized town — not a city —
but a good-sized place. I didn't dare go
up a street, but slunk through an alley.
Fine start for a young dog, wasn't it?
Alley dog, that's what I was. The first
day I got as low down as that.

The next week was bad. I was kicked
and stoned and chased and bitten. It
seemed like everybody had a grudge
against me — dogs and men and horses
and cats. I slept a different place every
night, and if there was ever a dirtier
puppy than I, then he was in a pretty
sad way. I hadn't made a single
acquaintance. The only dogs that spoke
to me had growled and ordered me
away or sneered at me, and I was lone-

11

INTO HIS OWN

some. I kept thinking about my family,
and I made up my mind I never would
stop looking for Mother so long as I
had three legs to run on.

12

CHAPTER II

"gutter dog"

It was the next week that I first saw
the bull terrier Joggs, who afterward
became famous under the kennel name
of Raynsford Champion. Outside of me,
he was the only dog of champion stock
in town — and I didn't realize I was
then. He was being led along the street
by a man, and you never saw a puppy —
for he was about my age — look like he
thought he was so important. And
mean! Say, the expression on Joggs'
face was enough to make you turn
around and bite yourself.

He was on the sidewalk and I passed
him in the road. As soon as he saw me
he commenced to sneer the way bulldogs
do, and there isn't a more exasperating

13

INTO HIS OWN

sneer in the world. He looked up at his
master and then at me again, and then
said:

"Gutter dog."

Just like that, he said it. Well, I was
a young dog and I was in all sorts of
trouble, so maybe I would have been
justified in making believe I didn't
hear. But Mother had impressed it on
me never to take any lip from a bull.
She said no bull was ever a gentleman;
that they were nothing but toughs come
into a little prosperity, and that she'd
disown a son of hers that wasn't a
better dog in or out of a fight than the
best bull that ever growled. So when
Joggs called me a gutter dog I stopped
still and looked at him as insulting as
I could and told him he was a lap dog
and slept in the same basket with a cat.
He was so mad he looked like he'd gone
crazy. The man that led him had hard
work to hold him, and I didn't care

14

INTO HIS OWN

whether he did or not. Finally the man
dragged Joggs on, but not before he had
told me what he'd do to me if he ever
caught me. I just grinned at him.

That settled things for me. I had to
stay in town now. It would be impos-
sible for me to keep my self-respect and
go away before I had a full settlement
with that bulldog.

That afternoon I made friends with
old Pete. He was a tramp and he was
lazy and shiftless and generally no-
account, I guess, but for all that he was
the best friend I ever had. And wise!
That old dog knew everything. What
ailed him, I expect, was that he was so
many kinds of dog — I'll bet there were
a dozen breeds in him, and he looked it.
He had the bad luck to inherit the home-
liest point of each of them, and the good
luck to inherit the best part of their
brains. That's all he had, though —
brains and a kind heart. He knew what

15

INTO HIS OWN

a dog ought to do and how he should do
it, but he lacked the backbone to live up
to what he preached.

He was lying back of a deserted barn
when I came along looking pretty down
in the mouth.

" Hello, young feller," says he, wiggling
his tail.

"Howdy do," says I, tickled to death
to hear a pleasant word.

"If you hain't got no pressin' business,"
says he, "come and lay down in the sun."

So I did.

"What's ailin' you?" he asked me.
"You look like you'd e't a p'isoned pork
chop."

It was too much for me and I broke
down and whimpered and told him the
whole business. He questioned me pretty
keen, especially about my Mother and
the kennels and then he made me stand
up and walk around so he could look
me over careful. While he was doing it

16

INTO HIS OWN

he kept waggling his head and mumbling
to himself, but what he was saying I
couldn't hear. I know now he was
sizing me up to see if I really had class.

"What you aimin' to do?" he wanted
to know.

"I'm going to stay in this town till I
lick that bulldog/' I says.

"Good idee/' says he. "Every young
dog ought to have an object in life."

We stretched there in the sun quite a
while, just being sociable. After a while
old Pete says to me:

"You hain't quite old enough yet to
look after yourself like you ought to.
If you hain't got no objections you can
sort of hang around with me. I've
banged up and down the world consid'-
able and I calc'late I won't do you no
harm when I give you advice. It's to
be a partnership, though. You got to
hold up your end."

I told him I'd be tickled to death, and

17

INTO HIS OWN

that settled it. For more than a year old
Pete and I hung together, and, like he
said, it didn't do me any harm. Maybe
I didn't get what you would call polish
— but I did learn a lot of dog sense; and
Pete wouldn't stand for any bad habits.
He taught me a lot. For instance, he
taught me to fight, something he couldn't
do himself — but he knew how just the
same and he had a way of telling things
that made you understand right off.

"Remember," he kept saying to me
till I was tired of it, "that you're a
thoroughbred. Don't forgit you're an
Airedale. It don't matter how deep
down you get on your luck, keep thinkin'
about your blood. Blood's what's the
matter with me and blood's what'll
make you come out all right in the end.
Don't forgit it."

We didn't have an easy time of it,
you may be sure, but we managed mostly
to get enough to eat, and in a few months

18

INTO HIS OWN

I had my growth so other dogs didn't
pitch on us to amount to anything.

" You're a fightin' breed/' says Pete.
"Let 'em find it out. Them that can
fight and is willin' to fight don't usually
have to."

19

CHAPTER III

THE FIGHTING BREED

I presume I got to be a pretty tough
and swaggery sort of dog. I was a big
Airedale and strong, so that pretty soon
the dogs found out it wasn't fun to
meddle with me. At first I rather looked
for fights — just to establish my reputa-
tion. When I'd licked about a dozen
curs it got around that I was a bad one,
and Pete and I were left alone. After
that I never fought unless some stranger
picked on me — or unless I really needed
the practice.

"I'll bet/' says I to Pete, "that I could
thrash that Joggs bulldog."

uUm," says he. " Maybe so, maybe
not. You got lots to learn yet. I'll
tell you when you're ready for him."

20

INTO HIS OWN

I saw Joggs several times, but he was
either riding in an automobile or being
led, so we just made nasty remarks to
each other. Word was brought to me
several times that Joggs had it in for
me and intended to get me as soon as
he could.

"Wait," old Pete kept telling me.
"A bull fights different. You hain't had
no experience with bulls."

But I got some experience. A tramp
bull came to town that fall, and he was
a rough customer. Right away he
started bullying everybody and picking
fights. Pete made me keep away from
him, but I watched two or three scraps
to see how he went at it, and that didn't
do me a bit of harm.

Finally Pete said I might as well take
a crack at the bull, so I just waited
around like, to give him a chance.
Don't ever worry about his taking it.
That dog loved to fight.

21

INTO HIS OWN

It happened in front of the livery
barn, and he started it. We went to it
good, and it didn't take me more than a
minute to find out I'd taken on a good-
sized job. He kept trying to get under
me to take a chunk out of my throat,
but I was too quick on my legs and kept
going in and out and nipping him, waiting
for a chance to throw my weight against
him and knock him down. He ripped me
good a couple of times and we were both
pretty well mussed up, but in the end I
got him and got him good. Over he
went, and I got my hold right under
his muzzle. After that it was good night
bulldog!

"Am I ready for Joggs now?" I asked
old Pete that night.

He grunted and grumbled, but finally
said he guessed I was as good as I ever
would be. "But," says he, "Joggs is
champion stock. Don't pick him for an
easy one."

22

INTO HIS OWN

Right after that things happened that
made me forget for a while about Joggs
and even about looking for Mother. Old
Pete and I were kept so busy dodging
men with guns that other troubles didn't
have any time to bother us. It was on
account of sheep killing.

If there's one thing in the world an
Airedale hates more than another it's a
sheep-killer. We originated where sheep
grow and the instinct to sort of look out
for them is fast in our blood. But the
men in that part of the country didn't
seem to know about it, and I was sus-
pected just as much as any other stray
dog, or farm dog for that matter, in the
vicinity. There were half a dozen dogs
shot in a couple of weeks, and Pete and
I kept out of sight.

"Fd like to get a grip on that sheep-
killer," I says. "There wouldn't be
any need for a man with a gun."

Early one morning Pete and I came

23

INTO HIS OWN

sneaking out of the woods to look for
something to eat. We came down the
middle of the road so nobody would see
us in the fields or pastures where sheep
were grazing. It wouldn't have been
safe. Pretty soon I got a sniff of sheep
and saw a flock of them just waking up
over to the right in a little valley. It
was a pretty sight and I stopped to watch
for a minute.

As I stood looking I saw something
white sort of creep over the top of the
hill and crawl toward the flock. It
wasn't any sheep — and it was a dog.
For a second I didn't understand, and
then it popped into my head that here
was the sheep-killer.

I said as much to Pete, and he said
I'd best come along and keep my nose
out of other folks' business. But a
sheep-killer is any honest dog's business
and I told him so pretty brisk.

"You can do what you want to/' he

24

INTO HIS OWN

says. 'Tm going to put a lot of
country between me and here." Which
he started to do with his tail between
his legs.

I crawled through the fence and
circled so as to get behind the sheep-
killer, and I went pretty fast. I kept
over the brow of the hill till I was about
where I wanted to be and then I crept
as cautious as I could to where I could
see. Well, sir, you could have knocked
me over with the jerk of a puppy's tail!
The sheep-killer was in plain sight.
He was white like I said — and he was
a bulldog. And he was the bulldog. I
almost barked for pure joy. Honest to
goodness if it wasn't that Joggs dog —
Raynsford Champion he was now.

"Howdy do, Mr. Champion," says I
to myself, and after him I went. Before
I got to him he was on a sheep and was
worrying its throat. I could smell the
blood and it made me sort of sick to my

25

INTO HIS OWN

stomach ; also it made me see red. Funny,
but that white dog looked red to me for
a second. The next second I was on him.

He let go that sheep sudden and
turned on me.

"Sheep-stealer," says I.

"It's you, is it?" says he. "Good."
And then we went at it.

It was a silent fight. He never made
a sound for fear somebody would come,
and I was still because I was saving my
breath to use in my business.

I'll say this for Joggs — he was some
fighter. For a bulldog he was about as
good as you'll meet, and he was strong
and well trained and well fed. I was
down to weight because I had to be, and
I got all the exercise I needed dodging
men with guns, so on that score we
were even. But I had one advantage.
I hadn't been killing sheep. Maybe you
think that don't amount to anything,
but just you go into a fight with a clear

26

INTO HIS OWN

conscience when the other fellow knows
he has been at something low down and
mean — and you'll understand.

We kicked up considerable sod, I can
tell you. At the start we were pretty
cautious because wTe knew this was no
ordinary fight, but when we really got
heated to it we left out quite a lot of
strategy and put in considerable more
scrap. Joggs kept calling me out of
my name every time he got a chance to
breathe, and the things he said would
have made a Spitz envious — and a Spitz
is the meanest talking dog alive.

He gashed me down the shoulder and
once he got a hold on my leg, but I broke
away. Another time he threw his weight
on me when I was unbalanced, and for a
jiffy I thought it was all day with me.
But I kicked out with my hind legs and
boosted him enough to let me scramble
from under. There wasn't any let up.
We fought on and on and on, and oh,

27

INTO HIS OWN

how tired I was getting! I expect he
was, too. When we'd been at it till it
seemed like hours and I was cut and
bruised and bleeding from a dozen places,
I managed to give him a nip in the small
of the back, and I guess it must have
hurt plenty, for he just forgot all his
science and came for me. And he came
high up, which was very foolish of him.
I met him halfway — from below — and
there wouldn't have been anything to do
but carry home a bulldog if somebody
hadn't interfered. As it was, he didn't
have more than a half-hearted wheeze
left in him.

All of a sudden somebody grabbed me
by the scrufT of the neck and threw me
a dozen feet.

"Here's your sheep-killer," says a man.

I didn't care what he said, but made
for Joggs again. The man kicked me in
the ribs.

" Shoot him," says he.

28

INTO HIS OWN

"Bide a wee, man; bide a wee/' said an-
other man with an Airedale accent. "I'm
no so sairtain aboot the sheep-killer."

"It's plain to see," says the first man,
"that Joggs came on this cur killing a
sheep and tackled him."

"'Cur,'" says the Airedale man, "I
dinna ken if he's such a cur. He's no the
sheep-killin' breed."

"Nonsense. Give me the gun."

"Is it no possible this Joggs dog was
doin' a bit maraudin' on the sheep and
this laddie could no stand by to see it?"

29

CHAPTER IV

SANDY KENS A DOG WHEN HE SEES ONE

The man with the Airedale talk came
to me and patted me and I licked his
hand. He took my muzzle and looked
into my face and shook his head. Then
he straightened me up and eyed me all
over and sucked in his breath.

"Somethin' is no as it should be here/'
says he to himself. "Yon's no tramp
dog stock.'7

From me the man went to Joggs, who
was just beginning to crawl about.

"What's this?" says he. "Come take
a look."

He was holding Joggs' mouth open.

"Look ye/' says he, pointing in. "Tell
me, is that no sheep's wool? Eh, man?"

30

INTO HIS OWN

The other man looked and frowned
and seemed upset.

" 'Tis caircumstantial eevidence," says
my friend, "but we'll gie the accused
anither test. Do you go and admeen-
ister a kick to yon sheep."

The man did as he was told, and at
sight of it I couldn't keep still. I growled
and started for him.

"Nay, laddie, nay," says my friend,
grabbing me quick. "Ye could no see
the sheep abused, could ye? Now what
think ye, Mister Hollands?"

The other man didn't say anything,
but just stood thinking. While he stood
Joggs stood up, and at that I walked to
the hurt sheep and stood over it with my
hair bristling, daring Joggs to come on.

"Look ye there," says my friend.
"Does that no tell which is sheep-killin'
and which is no?"

I guess there wasn't any doubting who
was guilty. I know what was left of

31

INTO HIS OWN

Joggs looked guilty enough. His master
scowled at him.

"If he wasn't worth more money than
the whole flock of sheep I'd give him a
charge of shot," he said, angry-like.

"How aboot this ither laddie?" says
my friend. "I'd like well tae see him
clean, Mister Hollands. 'Tis Airedale
he is, sir, wi' no blemish in his blood, or
I'm a Sassenach."

The other man's eyes began to twin-
kle. "He gave Joggs a licking. Any
dog that can do that is worth his feed."

to

Thank ye, sir," said my friend, and
then he turned to me. "Will ye come wi'
me, laddie? Eh?" I wagged my tail and
followed him. Both of them carried
Joggs, who was too weak to walk.

My friend, whose name turned out to
be Sandy, washed me up and put stuff
on my cuts and fixed up a place for me
to lie down in the stable. I wasn't sorry
to take a long sleep. When I woke up

32

INTO HIS OWN

again I felt as good as ever, barring a
little smarting where Joggs' teeth had
been gnawing around. So I walked out
into the yard to look for Sandy and
something to eat.

Mr. Hollands hadn't many dogs; just
a couple of setters and Joggs and a fox
terrier by the name of Scoot. But every
one was a thoroughbred and every one
had brought home ribbons from bench
shows. I was the only one that couldn't
brag about my pedigree — and I could,
but there was no way of proving it.
However, the other dogs besides Joggs
were pleasant and friendly. It tickled
them to see Joggs get thrashed, and they
told me so. But, kind as they were, they
made me feel somehow that I was differ-
ent. What with their talk about pedi-
grees and their recollections of what
happened at this bench show and that
bench show, I was sort of out of it. They
were always talking blue ribbons and

33

INTO HIS OWN

cups and things like that, when I didn't
so much as have a tin plate.

I learned that the next show came
along in November and ended so the
dogs would get home for Thanksgiving.
That was quite a while off, so it didn't
bother me any, and besides it was none
of my business, for I wouldn't go. Folks
don't pay entry fees for stray dogs as a
general thing.

But Sandy was proud of me. You
wouldn't believe it, but he was fonder of
me than of any of the rest. Once I heard
him bragging about me to Mr. Hollands
and showing my points.

"Ye canna fool me aboot Airedales,"
says he. "Did I no see Ayreshire Lass
and Argyle Champion morn, noon and
night for a matter o' a year? 'Twas in
the Douglas kennels. An' I'm tellin'
ye, sir, this bit doggie no has to take the
dust o' anny one o' them."

"Shucks," says Mr. Hollands. "He's

34

INTO HIS OWN

only a tramp dog. You're partial to him
because he licked Joggs."

"I ken a dog when I see him/' says
Sandy, stubbornly.

Another time a strange man, walking
through the yard with Mr. Hollands,
stopped and looked at me.

"Didn't know you went in for Aire-
dales, Hollands," he said.

"I don't," says Mr. Hollands. "That's
nothing but a tramp that Sandy picked
up."

The strange man looked at me and then
called me over to pet me and feel of my
back and legs.

"This is your day for joking, isn't it?"
he says to Mr. Hollands. "If this is a
tramp, then I'm going to sell every
blooded dog in my kennels. Come, now,
where did you pick him up? Has he
ever been shown?"

"I'm not joking. He's Sandy's and
he's a tramp."

35

INTO HIS OWN

"Urn," says the man. "Let's see if
Sandy'll sell him."

But Sandy wouldn't sell me, though
the man argued with him half an hour.
Finally the stranger told Sandy he didn't
blame him and asked if he was going to
send me to the show. Sandy said he
never thought of it, and couldn't see
much use.

"Tell you what I'll do," said the
stranger. "I'll back my judgment of
that dog. You send him and I'll pay his
fee and expenses. How's that, Sandy?"

" 'Tis a bargain," says Sandy.

And that's how I came to be entered
in the show.

It tickled me, though I hadn't any
idea I'd have any luck, but I knew it
would please Mother if she could hear
of it. I hadn't forgotten her, you'd
better believe, and was just as deter-
mined as ever to find her. I hadn't for-
gotten old Pete either, but he was timid

36

INTO HIS OWN

about coming around. The best I could
do for him was to hide out bones where
he would find them. But he was a born
tramp, and it was hard for him to stay
in one place. Finally he told me he was
going to take to the road and we said
good-bye. And I've never seen him
again. I wish I might, now, for I'd like
to tell him what a lot I owe him.

All this time Joggs had been kept shut
up where he couldn't get at the sheep and
where he and I couldn't get at each other.
He didn't have any sense. There's such
a thing as courage and there's such a
thing as foolishness — which was what
Joggs had. He would have fought a
freight engine, and if I'd licked him
every day for a month, he would have
come the next day for another licking.

It was getting pretty cold now, and
November was commencing. Nothing
was talked of by the dogs but the show
and the Thanksgiving that followed. Mr.

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INTO HIS OWN

Hollands always celebrated Thanksgiv-
ing by having a lot of folks out from the
city, and he celebrated for his dogs, too,
especially if they did well at the show.

During that month we had especial
care — even myself, for Sandy kept get-
ting prouder and prouder of me every
day. At last he got so he believed I was
the equal of Argyle Champion, that he
used to know, and he said he bet my
mother was as good a dog as Ayreshire
Lass. But I knew that was all bosh.

Going to the show was no fun. Riding
in the train upset my stomach, and I
was pretty glad to get out and go to the
big hall where the show was, even if I
did have to be tied in a sort of stall with
dogs on all sides of me that kept barking
and yelping and disturbing me. There
was every sort of dog in the world. Right
where I was, though, there were nothing
but Airedales, and I never imagined
there were so many of us.

38

INTO HIS OWN

Over at my right I could see a square
place where men kept leading dogs and
other men looked at them and poked
them and felt them and wrote in little
books. The dog next to me said that
was where the judging was done and
that those men were the judges. That
made me sort of excited and nervous,
though, as I have said, I knew there
would be no ribbons for me.

39

CHAPTER V

THE TITLE IS HANDED DOWN

It was two days before the Airedales
were reached. Sandy had fussed around
me like an old hen — you know how they
act when they have chicks. He washed
me and combed me until I was actually
sore. I saw dog after dog go past and
get examined. I was pretty nearly the
last one.

"It's just a formality, Sandy/' says
Mr. Hollands. "Argyle Champion will
hold his honors. But as long as your
dog is entered, you might as well have
him looked over."

Sandy's jaw was set, but he didn't
say a word as he led me through the
gate.

The judges were standing around

40

INTO HIS OWN

careless-like when I came in, but when
Sandy lifted me up on the stand they
seemed to get interested, and asked
Sandy all sorts of questions. Then they
went over me careful. You never saw
anybody take such pains as they did to
see what there was to me. Finally a big
man with a badge shook his head and
said it was beyond him, and that such
things didn't happen.

"Set the champion up here," says he,
and Argyle Champion was put by my
side. We didn't look at each other.
I didn't dare look at him, he was such
an important dog. Imagine being the
best Airedale in the United States!

The judges compared us and talked
about us, and I could see Sandy chewing
on his moustache and almost jumping
up and down with excitement.

Well, sir, right in the middle of it I
looked over to one side and there stood
a dog — an Airedale. For a moment I

41

INTO HIS OWN

couldn't believe my eyes, and then I let
out a yelp of joy and jumped for her.
Men tried to stop me, but I dodged
them.

"Mother," I said. "Mother, it's me!
It's me!"

She knew me in a second, and if you
ever saw two dogs acting happy and
glad to see each other, we were those
dogs. A man tried to haul me away, but
Mother growled at him, and they let us
alone and watched us with such surpised
looks! We could hear them talking.

"Now, what d'you make of that?"
says one.

"It beats me," says another.

"They know each other as sure as shoot-
ing," says the big man with the badge.

"Wouldn't it — wouldn't it beat the
Dutch," says another man, as if he didn't
quite dare say it, "if this was the lost
puppy — the one that got out the night
of the Douglas Kennels fire?"

42

INTO HIS OWN

u

"Such things don't happen/' says an-
other man.

Is Weaver here?" says the big man.
He might have some way of recognizing
this dog — if it was that puppy. It's our
duty to find out if we can. Yes, sir; it's
our duty."

In a few minutes they came back with
a man they called Weaver, and he was
the man who used to come to see Mother
and the rest of us so often in the kennels.
He was excited, and Mother was excited,
and I was excited. Mother ran to him,
and then back to me, and licked my
face, and then ran back to Weaver. He
blinked his eyes as if something was the
matter with him.

"If," says Mr. Weaver, "if this is Ayr-
shire Lass's lost puppy he's got the mark
of a scar nicked across his left hind leg a
couple of inches above his paw. Jumped
on the sharp edge of a tin can, and we
were afraid at first it had got the tendon."

43

INTO HIS OWN

The whole crowd of men came for me
and lifted me on the stand beside Argyle
Champion again, and looked at my leg.
I knew what they'd find. I knew there
was a little mark across the leg where no
hair grew — it was some sort of a scar.

They found it, and — well, sir — they
yelled, actually cheered, and Sandy came
pushing through them and grabbed me
and hugged me, and other folks came
crowding around to see what had hap-
pened. I never saw such goings-on.

After a while the big man pushed
everybody away and says:

" We've got to finish this job," so once
more the judges compared me and Argyle
Champion inch by inch. Finally the
big man turned away and said gruff-
like:

"There's a new champion, boys."

I didn't understand until I saw Sandy
go crazy, and until Mother yelped, and
until Argyle Champion, like a real Scotch

44

INTO HIS OWN

gentleman, turned his head slowly and
looked at me, and said in a voice that
was kind, but very, very dignified:

"I congratulate you. ... It is not
an ill thing to be succeeded by one's
son — for you are my son, you know."

That's about all. All, except that Mr.
Hollands paid a whopping price for my
Mother, and sold Joggs — or Raynsford
Champion — for another whopping price.
Said he wanted no more to do with bull-
dogs. Then Mother and the rest of the
dogs and myself went home.

Next day was Thanksgiving. Maybe
you think that is a day just for men and
women, but don't fool yourself. Dogs
have as much right to give thanks as
anybody. We did. I never understood
much about Thanksgiving before, but I
do now — for Mother and I are together
again, and I'm not a tramp for every-
body to throw stones at, but am Clydes-
dale Champion — that's my new kennel

45

INTO HIS OWN

name. Yes, I'm thankful — thankful there
was a scar on my leg. Why, I have so
many things to be thankful for that I
can't think of them all.

Which is a pretty good way to be, isn't
it?

46